Klaine Advent 2013 Fics
by chemiglee
Summary: A series of stories I wrote for the Klaine Advent 2013 ficfest on Tumblr. Other characters appear periodically. Please read TW's for each individual chapter. Note: Due to time constraints I did not finish all the prompts, but I hope to do so next year!
1. Artist

**A/N: NYADA AU. Blaine and Kurt never met in high school.**

When Blaine saw the flyer for a beginners' drawing class in NYADA's extension department, he'd signed up for it with more enthusiasm than forethought. The thought of quitting crossed his mind, but the deadline to drop the class passed before he'd found the time to contact someone about it.

So Blaine resolved to make the most of it. It might be fun, and it could unlock some vault of creativity and depth of expression and emotion, and well, he might make more friends, too. Because Sam and Tina and Artie were his best friends _and_ his roommates, but it was time to make new friends, NYADA friends, and he still missed everyone back at home.

So he made sure to sit near the front, with a snow-white pad of drawing paper and a set of freshly sharpened pencils. He smiled and nodded at the other students and at his teacher, a weird lady with a grassy odor wafting off her peasant dress. After the usual small talk about the schedule and a little demonstration on drawing technique, Blaine waited, pleasantly, for further instructions. He waited for some inspiration –

- and then inspiration walked in, wrapped round in a dark blue and gold robe, and _stripped_.

The fabric pooled around his feet with dramatic aplomb. Maybe it was the golden light delineating his smooth limbs, or the saucy twirl of his hair, or the slender muscles weaving underneath that skin as he stepped up on the podium: actually, all these things held Blaine's attention for more than one – two – ten open-mouthed seconds. But it was none of those things that made Blaine think _this is inspiration_ _standing here_ _before me_. (Well, all of that helped, too. Let's be honest.)

No, it was the faint gray shadows underneath his bluish eyes, and a little redness and wateriness that told Blaine he'd rubbed at them – allergies, maybe? Fatigue? Sadness? – and fingers that spread apart widely and curled, flexed: he was getting to work. Blaine knew that gesture. He'd done it himself, many times, before writing, or vocal warmups, or playing scales. Blaine liked that he was a study of contradictions: shadows and lights, texture and depth, theatrics and heart, warmth and cold, all the things he strived to put in his own work, into his own dream of performing and writing for the stage.

And then the model swiveled sharply, so his back was facing the class: his left foot planted behind him, his right foot just a step ahead, his right knee at forty five degrees, his ass – oh yeah, that, too (and Blaine just decided he'd just draw it instead of trying to describe it to himself; words failed him.) Just – oh.

The model – uh, Kurt, the teacher had said - turned his head to the right to show his profile. A grin flicked about his lips, and maybe it got wider when Kurt gazed back at him. And on his back, a dark tattoo: _It's Got Bette Midler_.

That finished Blaine off. He was going to ask the model out for a drink after class. For possible friendship reasons, of course. Kurt winked at him as he shifted for the next pose, and that's when Blaine knew the answer was going to be yes.


	2. Belong

_December 3, 2053_

Snow hasn't yet blanketed the pavement, but the city's put down a sprinkle of rock salt, just in case. It's a good thing, because Maria can maneuver herself more safely – not that she _can't_ take care of herself. She's had her prosthetic almost all her life. Maria can be proud, as a consequence, but she's also got lips as smooth as silk and a voice that rivals her own. So, while Cherie waits for Maria to come in for their daily coffee date, she orders a grande mocha latte and a grande hazelnut soy latte and watches a few teeny-tiny ice pellets swirl over the frosted window.

You can set a clock by them. Kelly, from behind the counter, jumps up as soon as the two sweet elderly men bob into sight. There's two cups in a carry-out tray, waiting by the cash register, and it's this that Kelly carefully takes up and carries outside.

The men settle on a bench. It's always the same bench. Cherie can't see much of them, since they're wearing caps and warm woolen coats, but she thinks she can see a peep of a bright blue plaid bowtie under a gray felt fedora and a newsboy cap trimmed with a glittering snowflake pin. Cherie's never heard them speak, but she feels that their eyes are twinkling as they look at each other, and a memory's sparking between them as they talk: something bright, something strong.

They were holding hands, red woolen gloves interlacing tightly with smart black leather. Bowtie looks up at Kelly and blinks, like he's pushing away a reverie. Snowflake fumbles in his pockets, and Bowtie pats his arm as Snowflake's lips move; he's counting out the cash. They take their coffees. Kelly takes the money, and the two men hold their drinks, gingerly, in both hands, and take tiny sips from the rim. Kelly's already been forgotten, and a bank of sharply chilly air splits the snug warmth of the Lima Bean.

Cherie sighs. Maria's actually really late. Cherie starts worrying, and then calling every number she can find. She leaves message after message. So, naturally, Cherie doesn't notice the pair of loafers that followed Kelly's boots inside, nor does she notice the loafers stop and wait by her table until she finally looks up, wild-eyed.

"Are you all right, miss?" Bowtie asks. His voice is a little raspy, but his hazel-green-gold eyes glimmer at her in the lights.

"My girlfriend's usually not this late," Cherie frets. "She has a prosthetic – I'm scared that she's somewhere I can't reach her."

It seems very strange to talk like this to, well, a stranger, but Bowtie is so concerned that Cherie doesn't feel like it's an intrusion. It's a simple passage between two human beings, two people with no boundaries in this single piercing shard of time, and both Cherie and Bowtie know it.

Bowtie demurs a little. "She looks very strong," he says, with a little bob of his head. "But you ought to know – you belong to her, don't you? It's like you've always known her, and you knew it when you met."

"Yes," Cherie whispers. It feels like heartbreak, or maybe that's how it feels when you realize a truth you can't live without. "I do. I think I do. I just can't help – worrying."

"I know belonging when I see it," Bowtie says softly, "Kurt and I have belonged to each other for as long as we remember. We've had love, children, grandchildren, everything together." Bowtie waves his fingers, and Kurt touches his lips to his own. Kurt's smile is kind, too. "She'll come," Bowtie repeats. "She will. In the meantime, I've got to get some sugar. Ah, Kelly, thank you. See? Here she is."

Maria's wrapped round in a pink scarf and an apologetic smile. Before Bowtie goes to open the door, he ducks his head towards Cherie, one more time. "Don't forget to tell her you belong. Tell her _we'd_ know."


	3. Consume

**A/N: Klaine + being awesome friends for Tina.**

Tina doesn't need a man. _She's_ the heartbreaker now.

But she finds herself leaning her forehead on Blaine and Kurt's wreath-haloed door, without knowing how she got there except a vague impression of walking the New York streets alone - tired, so tired. It's hard having to be alone. Her dark hair curtains her face from sight, so when Kurt suddenly opens it she tumbles, headlong, into their snug foyer. Or she would have if Kurt wasn't there to catch her, and they both stumble, left, right, left again; Kurt finds his feet first, and props her up, tilts her chin up. Tears bead on her eyelashes.

"Tina! Tina, what's wrong? Oh, you did it. _Tina_."

"What's wrong?" Blaine, suddenly very alert, pops up from behind Kurt. "Queen T. Honey. Did you do it?"

"I did it," Tina sniffles, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes with the back of her hand. "I told him it was over and he cried and he begged me to take him back, and then I cried. What if I'm going to be alone _forever_?"

"No, you're not," Kurt says briskly. "He doesn't deserve you or your love. At. All." He points those last two syllables up, knife-sharp.

"Can I stay here?" Tina pleads, looking around their place; it's small, cupboardy, and cozy. She can smell Kurt's apple pie candle. "I can't stand being at home. I told him he had to start packing tonight."

Blaine pulls both Kurt and Tina into his hug so she's leaning against his chest. Kurt stands on her other side to wrap a comforting arm around her waist, and Blaine kisses the top of Tina's head. "We're going to marathon sappy movies and eat ice cream and cookie dough all night and talk. You won't be alone, Tina, not with us here, not ever."

"You two are my best friends ever," and Tina's smile trembles at the corners as she snuggles in, more tightly, into the warmth of Blaine and Kurt's arms. "But only if we watch some Hannibal first. "


	4. Dirt

**A/N: TW for angst and a post-apocalyptic AU scenario. It gets better.**

**Day 1**

The Blast wipes everything out.

**Day 2**

_Nothing_, Kurt thinks. _There's nothing outside_.

"I love you," Kurt says.

"I love you, too." Blaine is still hopeful.

**Day 3**

The world has grown dark and heavy, damp with rancid sweat and fluids and a nerve-racking fear that seeps through their veins, out of their faces, and up through the cracks in the concrete walls. They wait. Kurt's hanging in a feverish half-dream of someone smelling their presence in this place, someone coming to dig them out – that is, if anyone is left alive outside that cares enough to find them. Their voices stopped up with lead, so they'd sat together in complete silence for that first day and half of the second. He gripped Blaine's wrist and stared, unblinking, into the ether. Fear laces the air with a sour metallic tang. It wears on. Kurt keeps his back rigid against the wall.

Blaine doesn't complain, though Kurt's fingertips leave smudgy gray bruises behind. He curls up and puts his forehead on his knees. When Snowy's whimpers grow too loud, Blaine emits a broken _sh – hh – hh_and unfurls, crawls, creakingly, towards their little pile of precious stores. There lies the can opener; there lies salvation.

After Snowy devours his food, Blaine crawls back towards Kurt, back towards blotting it all out. Blaine hopes, still, but he admits to himself that it looks grim. Snowy finally falls asleep.

**Day 4**

"Don't leave me," Kurt whispers.

They lean against each other. The glass all shattered during the night, so their window panes stand empty. _But there's life out there_, Blaine thinks. Snowy howls to answer the howls of stray dogs skittering outside, but the rubble envelops them into a dank, hollowish space starred with holes. A wounded, yellow-tinted light straggles in. _And I can hear footsteps_. _Or maybe I'm just losing my mind._

"I'll never leave you," Blaine says. His face is streaked with dirt.

**Day 5**

"No," Kurt croaks. There is no more water. "I can't hear anything."

Blaine holds Kurt against his chest to share their warmth, and it's this that holds both of their fragmented spirits together, even if it's just by their edges. His chin touches Kurt's wounded shoulder, and still, he manages to shift, to lean down, and brush his skin with a ghost of a kiss, even though it hurts.

"Don't leave me," Blaine says, tiredly. World-weary.

"Never."

**Day 6**

Snowy is thirsty, too, but he manages to lift his matted head up for a passing sound – another passing sound, more footsteps, more footsteps that echo as they creep towards their hiding place.

They're going to have to fight their way out. Kurt's hurt, and Blaine's hurt, and they're worried about Snowy, but if the intruders are going to – to prey on them, steal their stores, then – Blaine's got some broken glass; it might do to help protect them both -

"They're here! They're here!"

"Rachel!" Blaine's voice sags with relief.

"I found them!" Rachel yells to someone, or someones, behind her, to ragged cheers. Sam apparently doesn't believe her, because he's yelling through the hole, over and over, heartbroken: _Blaine! Kurt!_ A slender hand pokes through, and its lines are familiar and soft and vibrant and stained with dirt and Kurt reaches up, enough to brush Rachel's fingers with his.

"We made it," Blaine whispers. "Thank God. I love you."

Kurt finally finds the strength to smile. "I love you, too."


End file.
